


Hard Feelings

by tollofthebells



Series: Art Trade and Gift Fics [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Crushes, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Pre-Relationship, Secret Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 04:46:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17460881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tollofthebells/pseuds/tollofthebells
Summary: Deria Tabris's crush on Alistair is harder to ignore than she thought.





	Hard Feelings

The first time Deria notices, they’re in camp. They’ve barely made it past the outskirts of the Brecilian Forest, and it’s rained all day, and she’s cold and wet and tired and cranky and she doesn’t want to set up her tent, to start a fire— _all damp wood, anyway_ —to hunt, to cook, to talk to anyone. All she wants, if anything, is to curl up in her bedroll and listen to the rain and fall asleep. Which she can’t do, without setting up her tent. And her stomach is growling. And she’s starting to get cold.

But Alistair—bright and smiling and damp-haired and quite possibly the most tireless shem she might ever meet—is unbothered. Happy, even. They’ve been walking since morning through downpours and mists alike and if he’s tired it doesn’t show, _no_ , he’s _laughing_ , hurling a soggy and half-chewed stick to and fro for Paragon to fetch and return. She’s not sure which of the two are muddier, but they’re both grinning, _as much as a mabari can grin, anyway_ , and she’s heard the shemlen say before that happiness is contagious but she’s never been more certain of the opposite than she is now.

“You want to give it a throw, Deria?” he asks her once Paragon has returned from Maker-knows-where with the stick, drool and mud seeping from his jaw as he wiggles his stubby-tailed rear excitedly. She frowns.

“I’d rather not, Alistair,” she sighs, dropping her pack to the soft, damp ground and pulling the pieces for her tent out. _Maybe I don’t have to cook anyway_ , she thinks; _I still have some nuts and berries from last night and the sooner I can eat quickly, the sooner I can—_

“Spoilsport,” Alistair pouts, and finally, she looks up at him. “You sound like you’ve been spending too much time with Morrigan.”

“Yes, well,” she mutters, looking out toward the distant patch of fallen leaves the mage has already erected her tent upon, “maybe Morrigan has the right idea.”

She bites her lip and looks back to him. _I’ll have upset him_ , she assumes, _maybe I can take it back_ or _maybe I can say something else_ but the wounded look she expects to form on his face never does. Instead, he furrows his brow. Chews his lip thoughtfully. Smiles. 

He _smiles_.

“If you want, I can go play with Paragon over by Morrigan and give you space to be alone,” he offers, gesturing with the muddy stick in one hand and brushing rainwater from his hair with the other.

She almost cracks a smile at that. Almost. She would, if his suggestion wasn’t so unexpected. “You really want to do that?” she asks, and he shrugs, beaming.

“Well, sure. Paragon and I get to annoy Morrigan. You can have some time to yourself to rest. It’s a win-win, really.”

So she turns away, hides the shy smile that pulls at the corners of her lips, nods, waves, and he’s gone, whistling at their mabari and skipping off to Morrigan’s tent for an inevitable argument Deria couldn’t be more happy to miss, and when her tent’s up and her clothes are a bit drier and she’s eaten a little and she’s tucked inside her bedroll with only the sound of the rain falling lightly over the canvas above her, she thinks of him again. And she smiles.

And she realizes.

Over the next few months, she notices the same feeling—like fluttering from her belly up to her heart—again. And again. And more frequently and more insistently. 

She notices on the road when Alistair picks berries and and apples along their travels and gives her the prettiest ones and saves the pruny and bruised fruits for himself, and she asks him why and he gives her that sheepish grin and never answers her straight, only says _I don’t mind the bruised ones_ or _they all taste the same anyway_ and her heart flutters when he does because she knows nobody prefers the bruised apples and that the pruny berries taste overripe and too sweet.

She notices on the shores of Lake Calenhad when he lifts her up from under her arms and drops her into the boat to be ferried off to the Circle Tower and she flails and kicks and demands he put her down and assures him _I’m perfectly capable of getting into a boat alone_ and he simply replies _I didn’t want you to get your shoes wet_ but leaves Morrigan ankle-deep in lake water to board the boat herself.

She notices in Redcliffe when he proclaims her bravery and her honor and raises his voice against Ysolde’s yelling when he stands before her and Teagan, even when she knows Alistair resents Ysolde, and his voice shakes when he speaks but he takes his place between them and her, proud and strong and shielding in spite of his fears and in spite of his past and tells Ysolde, _you will not question Deria’s honor while I am here_ , a brave statement, a window to the strength and confidence she knew he had in him.

She notices when he offers to set up her tent every night, even though she always says no. When he answers Morrigan and Zevran and Wynne with a whiny _what?!_ but at the sound of his name from Deria’s lips is suddenly all ears and all smiles. When he swaps with her every time she draws first watch at night, _why not?_ he asks, _I’m wide awake anyway_ , even as he yawns and rubs his eyes and flashes her a sleepy grin.

She notices.

She has _feelings_ for him.

She’ll never confront him about it. Caring for Alistair is one thing, admitting her feelings and engaging in a _relationship_ is something else entirely and so she devises a plan—the _perfect_ plan—to lose the feelings. Simply get rid of them. She speaks less and less to him each day. She makes a point to walk with Morrigan when they travel. She goes to bed earlier after dinner, or makes an excuse— _I’m going to go bathe in the stream now_ or _I’ll go see how Bodahn and Sandal are doing_ or _maybe Wynne could use some help collecting herbs_ —just to spend time away from him. Somewhere snow-covered and cold and approaching the Frostbacks, he asks her if she’d like to go sledding atop his shield. It takes all of her self-control not to laugh and instead to shake her head and retreat back in their party to where Leliana and Zevran stroll side by side discussing shoes. As if she’d rather do that than sled with him. As if shoes are a topic she’s invested in. When they arrive in the mountain pass, he asks her _do you think I could hit Morrigan with a snowball from this far back?_ and she smiles and begins to answer— _you couldn’t hit the great doors of Orzammar from a yard away if you—_ but stops herself; _this isn’t the plan_ , and _let it go_. So she retreats again. 

She succeeds in restraining herself from talking to him for the rest of the day, although avoiding Alistair brings her far less joy than something she considers a success should. But Orzammar is warm and buzzing with merchants and miners alike, and they have much work to do the next morning, and after pestering dwarven nobility for much of the evening, she’s happy to settle down in a little tavern and relax just on the fringe of the rest of her friends—sitting alone at the brick of the tavern hearth, sharpening stone in hand, quietly working away on her weapons and sipping a warm drink as she goes. At a nearby table, Leliana restrings her bow, humming an old Chantry tune, and Zevran disappears toward the bar. Wynne takes out a book just a couple tables away. For once, she feels as though she can relax, working into a flow of concentration and hardly looking up from her blades.

That is, until a broad shadow looms over her.

“Deria.”

 _Maker_ , she thinks with a sigh. She doesn’t look up from the stone in her hands. Not yet, anyway.

Avoiding Alistair, evidently, was not the answer.

“You’re hiding something.”

Again, she says nothing. But Alistair is not one easily deterred, and it doesn’t surprise her when the shadow doesn’t budge.

“Did Paragon chew on Morrigan’s staff again?” he asks, voice tinged with amusement. “You can tell me, you know. I can keep a secret. I wouldn’t tell a soul.”

“He didn’t,” she replies, speaking up at last but continuing to rub the stone against her blade slowly, methodically. Her cheeks are starting to redden; if she’s not careful, it’ll spread to her ears and then—

He falls into a seat beside her, making a chair of the warm brick of the fireplace and sighing wistfully, cheeks flush from the heat and the ale in his hand and he smiles that smile and now she _knows_ she’s done for. “Well then,” he said pointedly, placing his palms on his knees the way he does when he scolds Paragon for hiding his socks, “I know what’s going on, Deria.”

“Do you?” she manages, swallowing nervously, and if she sharpens her blade any harder there may not be any metal left to use.

“Yes,” he replies solemnly. “You have a _crush_.”

She very nearly chokes on her own breath.

“Annnnnd you want to hide it from everybody,” he continues. “I get it. So you thought, maybe if you stopped talking to me, there’d be no way for you to accidentally slip up about your secret love.” Even if she wanted to say something—she doesn’t—she wouldn’t have the time, the way he keeps thinking out loud. “But I’m too clever. ‘Clever Alistair,’ they called me back when I was in the Chantry, you know. Well, okay. Maybe that’s a lie. But anyway, I’ve figured you out, and I promise, Deria, I won’t say anything.” He folds his hands in his lap, still smiling pleasantly. “Just tell me. Who is it?”

“No one,” she mutters. A lock of hair falls before her eyes, but she doesn’t dare move it. _Just keep sharpening_.

“Is it Zevran? I mean, I personally don’t see the charm, but to each their—”

“It’s not Zevran.” _Damn._ She could have— _should_ have—just said “no.” Now she’s all but confirmed it—that, Zevran or not, there was _someone_. 

_Maker help me._

“Oh, thank the Maker,” he breathes, not missing a beat. “Leliana, maybe? She’s very nice. Though, maybe a bit overzealous about the Chantry and whatnot. But still—”

“ _No_ , Alistair,” she sighs. “I don’t have a crush on Leliana.”

She wipes both sides of her blade with a cloth, hands nearly shaking, wishing he would just walk away.

“Then…” he thinks out loud.

_Please. Stop asking. Please_

“Could it be...Maker’s breath…” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “ _Sten?_ ”

“No!” she yelps, exasperated, jumping up on her feet and pushing her stray bit of hair back behind her ear. Her face is hot and when she looks at him, a glimmer of surprise passes over his face, but he remains, steadfast, open mouthed. “It’s _you_ , okay?” she exclaims. “Not Zevran, or Leliana, or...Sten... It’s you. I have a crush on you. And now you know. So will you leave me alone please?”

He stares. 

And he blinks. 

And he gapes. 

And very slowly, but surely, his jaw-dropped expression turns first to a smile, and then to a beam, and finally to a grin. “Me?” he asks, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. “I—you— _me_?”

She buries her face in her hands, blushing profusely. “Yes,” she groans. “You. But—you can’t—you’re not allowed to tell anyone! And you have to leave me alone when I say so because I don’t want—”

“I will!” he says excitedly. “In fact, I’ll even leave you alone right now! If that’s what you really want.” He looks at her, still grinning sheepishly. “Um... _is_ that what you want?”

She looks at him, up and down, at how _happy_ he seems and how big his smiles are and the way he’s so ready to give her space if she asks and she doesn’t ignore the fluttering in her heart, _not this time_ , and the way her cheeks redden just looking at him and the way her lips turn upward at the thought of his excitement just moments before from hearing her confess it out loud.

“No,” she says, looking down at her feet to try and hide her own smile. “You can stay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an art trade! Deria Tabris belongs to [occorner](https://occorner.tumblr.com/).


End file.
